


Repetition Complex

by SlothsTheSinICaterTo



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: F/M, Psychological, Suspense, dark themes, what the hell is going on?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 08:12:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2102148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlothsTheSinICaterTo/pseuds/SlothsTheSinICaterTo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life for Dante and Trish is not always easy. Threats are never at an end. History has a way of repeating itself – not always for the best, not always for the worse...<br/>DxT</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blanketed heavens

**Author's Note:**

> This piece of fiction contains: violence, strong language and sexual themes.  
> You've been warned, read at your own discretion.  
> Out-of-character-ness is very much possible to be encountered while reading this story. The characters within this fic are mash-ups of their anime and game (but not the newest game – DmC) selves. Furthermore, the situations are not of the usual setting portrayed in the canon universes, their interactions and inner thoughts deliberately differ because such are not part of the original material – therefore things are compliant to the scenario. So, some may find this to be OOC – if you cannot stand OOC-ness, do not read this.
> 
> This is not a sequel to Mirror Bound. But if you're still 'ruffled' after it, you can consider this as one. However, I do recommend that you would read Mirror Bound prior reading Repetition Complex, that way you could understand the basis of the characters‘ interactions, my writing style and characterization – better.  
> Here's the link for Mirror Bound http://archiveofourown.org/works/2092854/chapters/4557261

 

**Repetition Complex**

**Chapter One**

**_Blanketed heavens_ **

There is a law that the residents of the Devil May Cry shop abide and visitors must obey. It is that under no non-apocalyptic situations should the hunters of demonic descent be woken up before twelfth in the afternoon (unless they are not asleep yet because of a 'till early hour party or hunt). And in any case it is better if the partners would not be deprived of their slumber for any reasons.

* * *

 

At a crispy, ten am, freshly rained morning the famous huntress Lady makes her way to the DMC office. It is a great, slightly chill, spring morning with just a bit clouded blue sky. She walks the concrete steps to the infamous building feeling uncharacteristically happy and chatty. Her sleep was restful, breakfast sublime and there is a job, which will bring a hefty financial reward (although with Dante any payment can be halved or nullified with ease, but the female slayer refuses to think about that now).

She opens the unlocked front door, left so for her arrival. Lady is greeted with much warmer air hitting her bare legs, she revels in the sensation. Yet the human huntress does not regret her choice of wearing shorts, although even if slightly on the more biting temperature – the weather is still far too fine to not be enjoyed in such a way.

The main room is empty (and surprisingly not very messy), that fact does not faze her as she confidently strides through it. She heads for the kitchen where their little 'meeting' will surely commence, once both of the hunters will be roused from their sleep by her previously foretold presence. The huntress is sure that they are already fully aware that she has arrived.

She heads towards the kitchen area and sees a huge gaping hole in one of the walls in the corridor but she doesn't stop to inspect it. There's no debris about the torn down wall, the living room is visible through it. Strangely it does not look like a college student's with sloth issues abode, void of empty pizza and take-out boxes, cans and bottles. It's still untidy but in a much more refined way.

Lady takes a seat in the kitchen and soon the groggy demoness enters it as well. She doesn't spare a glance the mortal huntress's way and raises a hand in a greeting notion, which the other woman replies to vocally.

Trish marches in clad in a light, black colored, almost see-through robe. It is loosely tied and shows off the demonette's black lace bra with purple embroidery. She fishes in one of her pockets and removes a pack of cigarettes, putting one into her mouth. The demonic huntress clicks the button on the electric kettle and inquires.

"Coffee?"

After a brief contemplation the visiting woman replies.

"Sure"

She swiftly inspects the obviously sleep deprived deviless and barely manages to stop from loudly exclaiming about a huge upcoming calamity because the seemingly ruffled huntress is not wearing any make-up. Lady realizes that it's probably the first time she's witnessing this miraculous happening of seeing Trish without any 'paint' and dressed almost practically. A pair of over-sized slippers on the demoness's feet (obviously Dante's) catch her vision. That's strange, she never figured the demon huntress to be one for that kind of footwear (or him to be one for that matter). When they're actually not wearing their obviously uncomfortable leather shoes, then she thought that both preferred to be barefoot.

"You look terrible" the human woman remarks.

The demonette takes out a lighter and brings it towards the cigarette, she stops as she hears the remark. She widens her eyes while not looking up and half-nods in agreement. Gesturing with her hands she exclaims.

"...Fuckin' peachy"

The button on the kettle springs back faster than should be possible for the water within to boil. The robe-clad woman fills three readied mugs with water. She pushes one of the cups onto the kitchen table towards the female that occupies it, noticing how she always chooses to sit in that chair, probably her favorite. Lady takes the hot mug and warms her cool fingers on it.

"Hadn't slept well?" honestly, that's an understatement, she thinks, both of the hellish hunters enjoy sleeping-in far too much.

"I'll say" the deviless answers and lights her smoke. "Only with Dante" she says and the smoldering stick dangling between her lips does not hinder her speaking.

"What happened?" the woman inquires with interest while sipping her drink. The usual standard but unfiltered black coffee.

Trish breathes out, takes her cup in her hand and leans back into the counter.

"Yesterday or well today we had actually gotten back at about three am. There weren't any hunts worth our while and we just weren't keen on partying. So anyways--" there is a pause where the demoness inhales and exhales "--we were actually in bed by then. Somewhere 'round four Dante's phone rings. Frankly, I didn't give a damn so I continued drifting somewhere between sleep and coherence"

The demonette continues her talking while taking pauses for a breath on the cig or a sip of her coffee.

"He picks it up and begins talking with the caller, then he gets all eager about something. Then he's all tripping out of the bed with the 'oh golly gee it's Christmas!' vibe in his tone. And he's all flippin' merry about whatever he's talking about, so as he jumps out of the bed he fucking flips the mattress in his great joy. I greet the floor – best wakeup call ever, very effective"

What Trish tells Lady hits her only way later.

"And it was all done accidentally. No, Dante doesn't even notice that I'm on the ground, he continues with his happy-go-lucky chat on the cell. When he finishes talking he turns around and sees the empty bed. Leans down and stares at me confused on why I wear the do-I-have-to-slap-a-bitch? look. And he asks in all seriousness 'what in blazing Hell are you doing on the floor?'. Seriously"

The human huntress even lets a laugh at the deviless's sarcasm toned little story.

"Turns out we got a hunt. Since we hadn't had any decent kills lately Dante was all up for it. And ain't nobody giving a shit that it's four am in the morning. And well, we went for it, wasn't all that bad really. Got back at the shop at about six, so we managed to wrap it all up in less than two hours. It was close by. Just managed to get back to bed... and then you called" Trish shakes her head and takes a gulp of her hot beverage "Fuckin' perfect. Only Dante can accidentally throw someone out of their bed and even ask about it, only Dante... Tsk."

The deviless studies Lady as the mortal woman barely contains her joy and laughter at the poor hunters' expense. She frowns internally, it's her forte to be sinisterly delighted as misfortune strikes other, not hers. It irritates the demoness but she refrains from commenting about it. Her self-esteem does not allow to express such minor dissatisfaction because one way or another in her understanding that's like showing weakness.

The female hunter indulges in small chat and Trish can't help but notice how different from the usual norm such a social-butterfly attitude and approach is. In her mind the nameless human woman is indifferent to anything that does not directly concern her financial losses, expenses and gains. Must be something in the weather, the hellish huntress snorts inwardly. Then again, it's not really without connection, seeing as this visit is not for the reason of friendly banter.

Minutes tick away and the deviless gets restless. Time is of essence if they wish to actually catch their prey. This isn't a case of that sort of huge magnitude (that usually goes without a receival in the form of money, she notes), so it's not like the hunted are in the open. Her tardy partner is taking his sweet-ass time in getting ready and he probably even found some sleep in this short notice. That bratty man, he's the one that is unyielding to forfeit this slay, alas he's late and she even has to be dragged into it. Lady even dares to inquire on where his devil ass is (because obviously Trish is considered to be the babysitter, it's just her disgruntled mind speaking, but for her – it's a serious thing nonetheless). The demonette shrugs feigning indifference, although the third smoke burning represents something else.

Soon an out-of-sorts Dante appears in the living room beyond the torn down wall. Clad in white underwear he lethargically wanders the room trying to locate sufficient clothing. Both women watch him. The human one spares him a 'well, good morning to you too' greeting, to which the half-blood only replies with a grunt. The other, the demonic one, inquires the hunched demon hunter that has already collected some of the haphazardly strewn about clothing.

"Did you pack the guns? Brought Ifrit from out of the basement?" interested in knowing about the task they had agreed upon being done.

"Get it yourself" comes the reply from the sleepy half-devil.

Trish frowns, biting the cigarette, she swiftly removes the over-sized slipper and throws it hurtling towards the half-breed. As the angered deviless sends the footwear flying she shouts out.

"Get it done!"

The slipper crosses the kitchen, the small hall and the holed wall, finally it smacks the half-blood squarely in the back. The object's speed would seem normal to any human observer and so does the impact, but to Lady's honed eyes – she sees the great force inserted into the ragged red slipper. It's meant to sting. She smirks and leans onto her hand amused and entertained. The hit man arches as if sprouting a pair of humongous bat wings. Without any retort or complaint Dante scurries out of the living room as gracefully as a pterodactyl. The huntress enjoys what she believes to be a rare occurrence in the hunting dome. She envisions the two to rarely have any disagreements. Although that is not quite right but truth is always in the eye of the beholder.

By the counter the scantily clad woman huffs in annoyance.

The female guest hand gestures to the missing wall and asks.

"What happened there?"

"Our popularity got the best of us" the demonette says disinterested "A demon broke into and wanted to have a tussle with Dante. All it got was a fly through a wall though. Still gotta repair it, haven't gotten to it yet. If you ask me, then all in short, it's Dante's fault that there's a gaping hole there"

Lady only nods absentmindedly at the answer as she sips her black coffee.

* * *

 

When there's only rotting flesh, bones and ashes left from those that were alive only hours prior, and there's a silent beep of the human woman's phone confirming their pay – the hunting party sits in a meager celebration on a job well done. The paved ground is cold but it doesn't bother anyone. The strange trio sits in a small space cleared of debris, beneath a street light.

The half-devil leans on a huge chunk of rubble feeling fulfilled. The mortal huntress doesn't mind the demolished street as it won't be included in their expense list. And Dante's happy that the area is clear of any inhabitants, whether warned prior to an upcoming natural disaster or left by their own accord for same reasons – he doesn't know and doesn't care. The half-breed's glad that there aren't any connections with the supernatural – signifying a clean execution on his part.

As they sit on the ground in a triangle, only a bonfire is missing to bring to completion the bizarre sight into the 'perfect' campsite view. There are various snacks between the hunters, chips and such, beer, wine, cider and what not. The demonic party members had raided a store in the now abandoned neighborhood – not like the owners will miss a few items. The man smokes a cigarette from a new 'borrowed' block because in the lengthy day both had managed to tear through the last pack they possessed. Not like they don't deserve a couple (more than a couple, obviously) packs for their job well done.

The conversation is light, even if mostly business related. But truly, their business (at least between the residents of Devil May Cry) is always discussed in this manner. The half-blood tries to put out his smoke with a flick of a finger but due to a bad-luck bringing gust of wind – accidentally throws the ember onto his lap. He quickly and in a panicky fashion brushes it off of his form, managing to save his clothing from damage. Neither of the seated, snacking women to his left and right pay any attention.

There are jokes and careless laughter shared between the three.

Dante places his bottle of beer beside him and rises from his stretched out pose on the ground to his feet, not so gracefully (it's more of a relaxed manner than intoxication). He walks away, obviously to take a piss. He travels with difficulty through the huge chunks of rubble that used to be buildings before their awesome display.

Both females sit in a more withdrawn manner than the demon hunter had. Trish takes a pack of smokes from the nearly discarded block. She puts a cigarette in between her pale pink lips. Lady outstretches a hand towards it and the demoness brings the pack closer to her. The human woman removes a cig from it and retracts into her earlier position.

It is strange since the mortal female had not once expressed her disgust at the act of smoking. As the demonette lights up the smoke she thinks that it is probably because of something on the other huntress's mind that makes her indulge into such a despised act. The air about the fatalistic duo turns serious. She tosses her lighter to the woman opposite. After a slight pause she uses it. The first breath the human woman exhales, the deviless hears it more like a resigned sigh, she notices the frown marring the brunette's features as well.

"There's something going on in the Underworld" Lady utters with finality.

The demonic woman nods and replies, her tone does not reflect deep surprise.

"You noticed?"

There is a very unsophisticated snort.

"Of course. It's not really something – and that is what makes it so serious" the mortal elaborates further "It's too quiet. And well, there are significantly less demons crossing the barrier. It's as if all hell is dormant and that exact fact is what makes this serious. It is as if the underworld is trying so desperately to convince us that there's absolutely nothing out of the ordinary going on, which actually just proves that there's something big going on"

The human huntress smokes with a nervous streak in it. And that is the only thing that reveals how truly bothered she is because her voice does not waver.

"The Netherworld has gone dead silent. Ah, what is the saying, when Hell freezes over? Well that fits the current state of it well" the demoness says with disinterest laced in her words.

"Do you know anything about it?" Lady inquires. She doesn't know the whole story but she has the basic outlines, still it is mystifying how the hunter's partner manages to retain such high intel on the netherworld. The woman knows of the demonic origin of the huntress, well more or less. And since all of those hellish ties should have been long since severed it is peculiar how she knows so much of the happenings down _there_. It is as though the deviless has an all-seeing eye over hell.

Trish takes a drag and exhales, softly tilting her head from side to side, voicing her answer languidly.

"Not exactly. I don't know any details but there's no mistaking that there's a plot already set in motion"

"Isn't that bad?" the other woman hisses and her question-but-not-really-a-question is like an attempt to shake demonette into caring. "Does Dante know?" her tone is still hasty and filled with angered concern for the wellbeing of the world.

The demoness shakes her head as she outstretches her legs and gazes up into the dark sky.

"No, I don't think so" waving her hand dismissively she adds "It does not matter, there's no use in prying now and attempting to stop something that may not even come to fruition. When we'll get the challenge, maybe even directly at our doorstep – then we'll act. Venturing to Hell and back is not wise nor really helpful. Don't let it bother you too much, any grand plan does not come to life so anticlimactically. Rest assured first comes the grandeur and only then the apocalypse."

"You seem to be confidant in that hypothesis" Lady says with something akin to easily distinguishable simmering loathing. Obviously unconvinced with the statement that has all the prideful air of a fact.

"It's a constant, dear" Trish replies with a wicked smirk, completely unaffected by the not hidden doubt in the human woman's words.

The half-blood returns just by the end of that heavy conversation. He takes hit seat on the cold ground and gradually the chatter returns to its previous mini-celebration mood.

The half-breed leans back in his stretched out position and turns his head to the skies above. The darkness is vast and unending and he can't see any celestial bodies within. The heaven is blanketed with heavy clouds. Seemingly fluffy and dense enough to become the perfect bedding. They reflect the city lights and it creates an illusion that accentuates their majestic softness.

* * *

 

They part ways when the day is almost lit anew. All filled with happiness from their little party and drinks, not like there was any reason to be down. Well at least that was the mirage of the cheery mood.

The human woman reaches her abode in record timing (although that is not a rare occurrence in any sense). She always speeds with her bike uncaring for any laws of the road, even if she should also be a part of the mortal reality. This fact had never bothered her in any way.

She enters her large and empty apartment, void of personal touch. The décor in her "home" is nonexistent as she doesn't need any trifle attachments to a place such as this (or any other in her understanding). Blank walls and scarce, average furniture is her choice – even if she has enough dough to allow a high-rise lifestyle.

Wasting no time she strips to her panties. Putting on a white top with straps, she climbs into her bed. The female sinks into the linen sheets and starts drifting off into rest.

Something bothers her usually immovable mind and she jolts out of the bed with a loud exclamation.

"What!?" Lady grimaces surprised and continues the shouted thought "The same bed!?"

That realization is so odd that it is full-blown impossible. It's unacceptable, really how is that possible? The fact continues to annoy her throughout a large portion of the "night", to the point that the huntress has to force herself into uncaring. Not before settling for some simple explanations though, which are that: b) it's just a bed, because a) she was oblivious of something – that theory is denied. End of story. Unbelievable – is the last word her mind utters before Lady finally falls asleep.

 


	2. Dead zone

**Chapter two**

**_Dead zone_ **

 

 

Dante stands in a small clearing. Somewhere in the Old Lands but he’s lost concentration when it came in grasping the fleeting information of where exactly he is. It’s a mountaintop with imposing pines and shriveled leaf-trees and shrubs – because rain is a very rare guest here it seems. The ground is shrouded in a dense fog that rolls about the devil hunter’s feet and the sun is absent from the sky. There is a stone altar with two unhewn rock pillars about it. It’s not an eerie one with blood stains, slain corpses and all that. The place looks like a decent tourist attraction but the fact that he’s here clearly indicates that it’s no ordinary site. Include an ‘extra’ in front of that ‘ordinary’.

This location is plenty weird and the half-devil’s seen some pretty weird shit throughout his years. Fuckin’ Babylon towers rising straight outta the ground, old-ass castles that just scream ‘haunted’ with floors waving like the sea, domes that have puzzles, which if you won’t solve you won’t go no further – and it doesn’t even have anything to do with demonic enchantment. Also portals that deny the very existence of the three comprehendible timelines, and if you enter – you’ll have to face enemies you’ve already slain – it shocks you into the realization that the universe is not really singular. Reason to why the term ‘multiverse’ was created. Yeah, all that’s well enough to be creeped-out but this, oh this place deserves a ranking in that list of unexplainable things.

It’s one of those places that are in this plane and it’s no void or a gateway to a different dimension. These kinds are the opposite of ‘otherworldly’, no connections to demons whatsoever. Sort of like the Bermuda Triangle – lots of small areas like that are littered across this world.

The half-blood remembers vividly the warning he had received from his partner before going here: _The place is inversed, everything is completely opposite of what it is and by everything – I mean everything_. And he’s all giddy because of that, hunting a demon in a _lost_ area is going to be epically awesome. No need for a strong opponent, this place is fucked-up enough to make it a mission impossible. It’s like Mundus all over just minus the blinding rage. And every time the half-breed recalls it a nasty aftertaste and a clench in his gut follows – shouldn’t have compared it to that, the waiting man thinks.

_Remember, Dante, we’re talking about chaos inbound here, don’t get carried away_ – it’s not like he doesn’t appreciate the advice from the huntress, oh no, far from it. Alas now that the hunter is standing in the place, he thinks that it may not do him any good. Still, if he had rushed here without heeding anything, he’d likely be healing wounds right about now. He corrects himself – don’t say that too soon, he hasn’t yet begun his fight and he’s already thinking that he won’t have a scratch on him.

Dry sand beneath his boots, the hilt of his sword Rebellion already held in hand. If everything’s upside-down then his rationale telling him that it’s too early to prepare for such a measly opponent is wrong. He _knows_ the creature is out there. If judging by what the sensation is, then feeling so utterly alone and isolated means that he is already stalked. A bundle of emptiness is somewhere on the right, northeast from the altar. … _is inversed_ – he hears the warning repeat in his head, well then it’s probably left and not… Well this is going to be interesting – if everything is so warped, denying reality of his senses, then he’s already tangled in his estimations, more like guesses really. The demon hunter grins maniacally although experiences wariness as well. He decides that it’s better when the demon will actually appear in sight to try and twistedly judge then.

From what he’s gathered, it is possible that his prey has toxins in its arsenal. So feelin’ cocky and receiving a few gashes would not be the wisest thing to do. It would be even worse if it’s the hallucinogen type of poison as well. Because getting out of this godforsaken place would be _fun_ then. Yeah trippin’ and neon-high like on some magic mushrooms when descending from the mountain – Trish would be so ecstatic when she would see him! He would tell her of the fairies he’d seen, the damn arguments with the color purple he had and then he’d even tell the demoness that she smells like strawberries. The huge frowning demonic strawberry would probably look hilarious to him then. At best he would be bitchslapped into coherency, at worst – he’d be impaled on Sparda, vertically and through the ass of course. And he’d even motherfucking like it in that state. The half-devil has no plans of spurring on abuse of his intoxicated self – nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, **nope** – definitely not a good idea. He makes a mental note to never, under any circumstances, go to the demonette and tell her stuff for reasons because the little people told him to.                  

One thing’s for certain though, if this demon is from around and completely adapted to this strange secluded area – then Dante’s fucked. Then just ‘tactical retreat’ would be all that’s left and he doesn’t perform such, ever. ‘Run, bitch, run’ is just not the half-blood’s motto. But from what his hunting party (the babes) has gathered from the locals – it isn’t so. He hopes that the hunted being at least slightly comprehends where it’s at. Because executing his pay (and it’s not all about the money right now, it’s about the play) when it’s all seizuring due to sensory overload would be no fun. The half-devil knows though that if he doesn’t get his hide away from this place soon, then it’ll be his brain that will go all ‘does not compute’ on him. He guesses that it’s one of the reasons why he finds this hunt so appealing. It’s like completing a game on hard mode with unfair and impossible settings. And that’s just perfect with him.

The demon is near, so it probably is still far. ‘Twould be bad if when it enters the half-breed’s visuals things would turn out to be the polar opposite and it wouldn’t really be there... Damn paradox-land, it is but it isn’t – peachy in a sense. Like getting shit for Christmas, literally. Fucking Play-Doh from the 1580ies, oh happy day!

The demon hunter’s psyche takes a more pleasurable route. Because minus the monster behind the plant shades this would be a place the deviless would like. With its not-really-what-you-think nature and all that. He should be alert but he’s relaxed for the moment. Hey, maybe if he does everything while rebelling his logical understanding he might get this location better, might get a hang of the upcoming battle without bruises and cuts not worth bragging about. The huntress would love this place, oh yes she would. And he thinks of making love to her on that stone altar. Atop of his demonic lover or beneath, whichever they’d both prefer at the time. The demoness would not oppose the idea because concerning these matters they’re both on the same wavelength. He contemplates whether it would feel like taking and receiving instead of giving in the physical sense. Although mentally, since she’s such a dominatrix, it is not a feeling he rarely experiences. The idea is inviting and it sends a shiver – the good kind, down the half-devil’s spine. Yeah, they should definitely do this sometime.

The idea that had encompassed him so fully just moments prior disappears instantly. And the imaginary visage of the midst of passion dissipates like it had not graced him at all. The mind of the hunter is now lost in a much darker cavern. His thinking process is often swift but not like this. He knows that it is the effect of this place. So he sees it now as limbo, for that is what it has all the propriety to be. None of his previous purgatorial and hellish journeys equal in their dreaded-ness. It chills the man to the very core. No different than what limbo should be... Not anything similar in comparison to a void. Here you’d be stranded, not knowing whether you’re dead or alive, such a state for eternity. Your mental processing so jumbled you could not possibly make out heads or tails of it. The physical world would be also much too the same. Conflicts with yourself and the surrounding would arise from nothing and actual opposing would be viewed as non-threatening occurrence. Living dead – there and not, nonexistent yet existing, thriving beyond the end. Oxymorons, oxymorons everywhere! And there’s the ‘fuck this shit, I’m out’ – all loud in the half-blood’s head.      

So Dante waits in this _dead zone_ , not able to not zone-out himself. There is the want to light a cig, relax and enjoy the view – ‘cause all the haunting thoughts are gone. But he’s not that spaced-out to miss what this means – the monster is very, very close.

And soon enough he gets his awaited visuals. The thing creeps out from a distant corner and sets its buggy eyes on the slayer with the sword. The demon looks something akin to a mutated praying mantis, green and with insect-like limbs.

Perhaps the demon hunter had caught the end of the string because the creature crawls out from the left, as he had tried to guess before. The half-devil raises his weapon in a defensive pose – not his style at all. And although his prey seems to be stalling – it’s probably ready to lunge. It happens quicker than expected, which is exactly what he had anticipated. He manages to swirl and block an incoming bug-claw or whatever the thing’s called. The attack was from the front, so he defended his back. Looking to be a swing from left to right, so right to left in reality. The big bad insect had jumped in the air, Rebellion was brought down to protect from a low strike.

The monster bounces back and the half-breed tries to track him, although he shouldn’t. It seems confused and shakes his head as if to clear it, even though there was no blow inflicted to its skull, yet. He grins but spares any taunts he has up his leave. This scenario is of his liking – clearly the bug is not outta here but it ain’t totally disoriented either. Well hallelujah! There’s going to be a fight after all.

The hunted one angers and the hunter barely contains the say that wants to roll off his tongue. Then again ‘kitty, kitty, kitty’ is probably not the way you beckon an insect to yourself. A mental sucker punch is struck – he should not think about this shit now! No matter how much everything tells him that he should do it, this place is backwards and the half-blood should not give in.

A hit – too late. He sees it come and barely manages to evade, achieving that only by leaping away. Directionless the motion is for he was too slow in coordinating how to harm the being or block his attack properly. Dante hisses, that was too clumsy for him. But his usual grace is not retrieved for the battle continues without a wasted breath. The show from this all would be bad, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins is plenty enough to be worth the lack of the usual visual awesomeness.

Block, hit, jump, kick, slash, evade and repeat. When the demon fails to grasp where its opponent is actually at – the half-devil wounds it; when it does sort it out – all there’s left is to defend or lengthen the distance.

The exertion is immense, breathing heavy and labored much, much, **much** earlier than it should be. But that’s all fine and dandy because the thrill of the kill is there. And now he knows that there’s no hallucinogen, at least not in the monster’s spindly limbs. The half-blood can prove it, although begrudgingly, the cuts on his leg and arm speak tomes themselves. He wants to laugh though because the bug’s looking worse for wear, its blood is red and there are wounds all over.  

Well what do you know, the red-dressed man whistles – his prey is not all that steady on its legs. Drunken mantis style, hey maybe it’ll be a new mainstream thing! Nah, there’s probably already a kung-fu flick or several about it, with funny English-dubbing ‘n’ all that.

Hours pass and the fight’s not finished yet. How much time has really gone by already, the demon hunter gives – he won’t even attempt to estimate that. Waste of good nerves, he concurs.

Severely injured but the demon still persists and its attacks are not too hindered by the fact it seems. Or maybe it just _seems_ that way. He’ll need a good rest after this – there’s a limit on how many paradoxes, oxymorons and the sort his brain can handle. The limits are long since passed though.

The swiftest of the creature’s offences is its lashing long tongue, so he looks out for it with uncharacteristic care. Several takes are required and the half-devil uses a lot of ‘evade’ moves, before he spies an opening and chops off the slimy appendage. The squealing sound of pain is not easy on the ears. The hastiness of the being is doubled, now it’s really pissed-off.

A couple more cuts (along with bruises from careless getting-away tactics) adorn Dante. And he’s all frowns because he can’t quite foresee the movements of the demon mantis to cause some real damage. Just shallow scrapes – now that won’t do. Not long after the demon hunter turns so agitated and sour for the fact, he loops off one of the monster’s limbs – success!

Tick tock – another hour gone bye-bye. Finality is attained with a powerful slash from Rebellion and the huge insect is sliced in half. The spray of blood splashes across the sandy clearing, only the hafling standing is not specked with the sanguine liquid of the last blow. The half-breed huffs heavily – satisfied. It’s been a while since he had so much fun and it was indeed a first – fighting in a lost dead zone. And now he actually feels like he’s _not alone_.

He stands in place for a minute or a few, making sure that he’s not affected by any poison. No signs of such and the hunter decides to idle some more (just to make sure) before he’ll cross the blurred out boundary between this area and the rest of the small mountain/rocky hill.

He looks over the carcass of his kill. Nodding he agrees – he has to take it with him, both of the sides. Hell, and what if it’s actually still living? What if it’ll like become two monsters and then effin’ split and multiply or something? Roaches are hard to exterminate perhaps this demon bug is too. He won’t risk failing to get rid of it and losing his pay as well. And so the half-devil grabs both sides of the demon, an antenna and a leg, and starts dragging them behind him. Trekking back the opposite way he entered since the right path should also be upside-down ‘ere. One way or another, the half-blood will get out of this crooked place.                

 


	3. A bottle o’ whatever to keep company

**Chapter three**

**_A bottle o’ whatever to keep company_ **

 

 

What is more _lovely_ than sitting in a bar? It’s _lovelier_ to sit in a bar with a full glass of course, Dante’s mind offers. But that’s nothing a refill won’t mend.

This place is not worthy of being called a hole, it’s more a café than anything else. He usually visits the aforementioned in this state but this’ll do nicely too. It’s different from bars he goes to drown his sorrows but there is a similarity as well – the main reason why he’s here. The scarce occupants, loners just as the demon hunter, are not the kind of lowlifes he often sees in them dumps; the bathroom ain’t drowning in piss; the seats, booths and what not are not as tarnished and scratched – just the odd working hours are the same.

The night’s young but the half-devil’s in no hurry to head back. Not like there’d be any reprimands or ignoring, and the latter would not be fixed by any begging. When you’re on your own – you’re on your own.

Just three weeks, three fucking weeks and he’s already mopping around. And he’s fine, oh he’s _fine_ , why wouldn’t he be? While the less than sober hunter is thinking ‘this shit is getting old’, the little pestering voices in his head are all screeching and not lacking in sarcasm, saying that even when it’ll be ancient – this will still be the same. Now he’s a hardcore cynic and an alcoholic but who cares? No one apparently.

The half-breed quietly calls the waitress and asks for another shot. He’s aware than you don’t call a huge-ass glass o’ whiskey a shot, but it’s of no importance. The tired young woman comes immediately and there’s no polite offer or a harsh lecture to him that maybe it’s time to stop drinking. He’s a well-mannered man and even his strange leathery garb does not rouse suspicion. She pours straight from the bottle and he doesn’t mind. The half-blood’s not picky or pedantic, there’s no difference to him if there’ll be less dirtied dishes to wash. So he thanks her and she leaves him be to wallow in his pity-party. He’s not obvious is he? Hopefully not. But in the end, he doesn’t give two shits about what others think.

And where’s everybody when he’s lonesome, desolate actually. Nah, no one’s there, ‘cause they’ve got their own shit to see to. How despicable, the demon hunter’s spent a good portion of his life on his own but now he can’t stomach solitude. And he doesn’t give a fuck if it’s the alcohol that’s making it seem so unbearable. He’d call his own bullshit if it wasn’t the truth.

Now he’s just sitting here surrounded by lowlifes that are looking for someone to take them home, hoping to find a one night stand. Tough noogies, they ain’t gettin’ any, not in this bar. And there’re no females in sight either way. Although, if the hunter thinks well on it, he’s no better than these men. Hell, he stands on a lower level, for he has who to turn to and it was his choice that led him to sit here.

Dante shouldn’t ponder hard on it, not like it would help any – only make it worse. Because it’s all his fault, but isn’t it always? Damn right it is and for the sake of sanity it’s better not to let the guilt gnaw at him. But he’s regretting it, oh yeah he is. The demoness offered him to go with her and what did he say? The half-devil had said that it’s fine, who needs vacation anyway? Not him. And now it’s clear what an idiotic decision that was. Despite the fact that there’s no hunting involved, what bad would it do to go with her when he can? But _noooo_ , count him out ‘cause he’s got better things to do here. Oh really? Not really. Because the Underworld thought that it should take a break as well. He could have caught a hunt somewhere in the Old Lands but did he think of that? ‘Course not. It’s not like the half-breed’s on a leash when he’s with the demonette, he could have gone on with his slaying business there. But again, it all leads to the fact that he was just too thickheaded to perceive that he could do it.

Would a month or so in France (or wherever she’s at) kill him? Sure it would – not likely. It’s all his fucking fault that he declined. For even if he screams ‘Trish’ until his vocal cords tear – she won’t come back. How fucking peachy is all that? Very, very peachy indeed. In reality he knows that he’s an obnoxious, wanton whore, it’s not like the deviless won’t return. She will, but right now – the world is ending. And why in the blazing nine Hells did he have to say no? Heck, if he’ll ever find the answer. But it’s so motherfucking _awesome_ that he can make decisions, which come back to bite him in the ass.

The hafling’s so dependent that it’s unbelievable. But will he show it? Not likely because he’s Dante, _the_ demon hunter, Sparda’s son – the one that does not give a fuck about anything. All cool and apathetic, a bastard that aids people only because he’s got bad luck: placing bets, flipping coins and never winning. He does not whine for he’s too badass for it. Who thought a hero would be like this? But hey fuckers, ‘tis real life for ya. You won’t find a superhero like the half-devil in any comic books, for he’s no role model. The image he wears so well is that of a man (a half-fucking-devil really) that strives off of pizza, demon killing and all that shit, always with a beer, a playboy magazine and a boss stubble on his chin. And everyone thinks he lives that kinda life, that he gets off from slaying hellish scum, with a pistol in one hand and the other in his pants when having target practice with living marks. But it was never like that, however in a sense it’s all good that his enemies and everybody else envision him so. This way there’s no abusable vulnerability, just humanity that he manages to protect every time. So there’s nothing really worth going after since the half-blood seems so untouchable, even if they’d be able to get close to him. But they do try and it’s true that it keeps the hunter entertained.    

He wants to slap or shoot himself – this is getting far too repetitive. And although he’s all for making promises as if on New Years’, the drinking male knows that he won’t hold shit when this drunken night’s over. Yes, the reference is all too true – many make resolutions on a brink of a new year but they all leave as empty words. It’s just like that Christmas resignation after way, way more food consumed than it should have been, to not eat until next Christmas or at least New Year. But as always an hour passes and the demon hunter begins stuffing himself anew. Gluttony – such a pretty _virtue_.

Despite being aware that he’ll break any oath made tonight, he still goes through with it anyway. The hunter swears on everything (he can remember at the moment) dear, that when he’ll return to the office he’ll do something productive. Clean it up so that it wouldn’t resemble a pig stall when the huntress gets back. And if he fails to do so, then he’ll do it with her presence watching him on the spot, in a fucking French maid’s outfit if he has to. Dante spends much more time thinking on specific tasks and things he should do once he sobers up, but in the end, come morn’ and all of these pretty plans will only stay as intoxicated promises.

* * *

 

The half-devil treads back to the office and DMC’s not really a home. He’s not that sort of romantic bullshit spewing guy to say that Trish is his home. Because it ain’t like that. The demonic partners don’t need a home and probably won’t ever. The shop’s a house, just a damn house. The huntress doesn’t give a fuck about such human concepts as ‘home’ and neither does he. Still, if his reluctance is anything to go by, then it’s goddamn clear that it sort of feels empty when she’s out. Like there’s no reason to rush back and all that, since he’s the king of his castle now. So why is that reference so dreaded now? Maybe because he’d rather be the horse-boy (yeah a fucking groom) or a servant, or even a slave in the _queen’s_ dome. Shit, he’s really wasted. Again with the motherfucking metaphors? Fuck it, just fuck it all.

The demon hunter estimates that he should crawl back into bed by somewhere... ‘round eight am? Sounds ‘bout right. It’s perhaps some sort of elaborate form of self-torture – to slowly drag himself/walk to Devil May Cry. Hold on, yup that’s probably correct. Well, in reality it is not like the more than a little distance would really harm him. Of course it doesn’t mean that when he wakes up he won’t feel it in his muscles (although it’s nothing compared to likeable/unlikeable mementos of fights), but add a hangover to that cauldron and voilà – you’ve got another _sweet_ reason to hate yourself. Ain’t life grand?

Hours to travel on foot – is there any other way to explain this, he asks himself, then to confess you’re a masochist? No, actually there isn’t. Despite the fact that he’s really just slightly drunk (by the half-breed’s scale ‘cause he’s far from passing out from the sheer amount of booze, probably a mortal would die from what successfully knocks him out) he chose back at the bar to forgo a metro or a bus, or some other similar public transport, although not because he couldn’t drive. A hellish half-blood that’s what he is and so, not your everyday pedestrian, therefore riding a motorcycle (or a car) while intoxicated is no real biggie. Sure he’d go in zigzags but with the kind of abilities he has – no car crashes or hit people would meet his wheeled venture. Then again, he had actually crashed not once (different reasons and all), but just one time because he was not sober. And that’s not quite true, Dante knew that the damn tree was coming and he let it come. The result is always the same anyway: a vehicle reduced to scrapped metal and him as healthy as a pickle. Talk about the perks from Hell.

The sky’s without any brushes of light and there are still miles to walk. But that’s fine ‘n’ dandy. Why? Because hey, he’s got a bottle o’ whatever to keep him company. Yes, the hunter agrees, it’s going to be bright (or dreary, very possible that) when he’ll reach the end of his destination.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet the readers that have read Mirror Bound are getting a Déjà vu feeling here. The fourth chapter will also feel slightly familiar, but don't worry, I won't venture the same way that I did in my other DMC fic.


	4. Boogieing with the bizarre

**Chapter four**

**_Boogieing with the bizarre_ **

Well, it’s about time, Dante thinks as he hears the familiar to the bone engine roar. Trish takes her time as always and walks into the main room of the office leisurely and inhumanly gracefully. Fighting off a glad smirk he offers an unconventional greeting.

“Hey, the party’s back in town and why wasn’t I notified?”

She’s in light spirits it seems and so she replies to his playful banter, while tossing her bag onto the couch and then removing her shades.

“The party comes when it’s needed”

“Spare me the quotes” he jokes.

A mock-insulted expression rules the demoness’s features.

“I was not going to quote”

“Catch anything?”

With genuine laughter comes the reply from the femme fatale.

“Yes, I’ve reeled in something”

“Brought anything back?” the half-blood questions.

“Sadly, no” and the sorry tone is all fake and that ‘course is all good.

“Such a shame” a posh accent is a must to respond to the faux. The demon hunter expects to prolong this non-serious conversation, for it’s been ages (not really) since he’s last laid his eyes upon his partner in hell-trash slay. But he doesn’t always get what he wants and she simply sighs, the sound signifies satisfaction at being back, although what comes next is a mystery.

The short black leather jacket with metal studs joins the discarded fancy-lookin’ bag (he’s not expected to remember all her accessories, now is he?). She curtly looks around the area.

“This is a pig stall” the demonette notes the state of the main room of Devil May Cry, which is of course poor looking. There’s garbage and upturned items, something that might possibly be a sign of tantrums but it’s him and she doesn’t question what happened here (because it really always looks like that when she’s not in the picture).

“Not my fault” the hunter shrugs and reclines in his favorite chair behind the desk. “But hey, the maid’s back, so that’s fine!” before he can determine whether the remark was worth it or not (it’s a honest jest, okay?) and no doubt her comeback is swift in its delivery but he still manages to live through a tiny, inward doomsday.  

She snorts not amused.

“We’ll see if you’ll still be saying that when I’ll make you scrub every centimeter with a toothbrush”

It’s not like the half-breed’s never cleaned anything before and he’s-- scratch that, he is not alright with it. But he’s managed to survive the deviless’s slave-driving not once, so despite the heavy and much too serious (in its literality) threat, he could deal with it eventually and regrettably. It’s not like he’s an enemy of decent living conditions (not that there are vermin running about, seriously if there were, the shop would have been burnt down long ago), it just happens.

He’s quick to correct her, although that’s not like the infamous man, probably it’s the solitude to blame. Depending on just how much ‘sunshine’ is in the huntress’s mood, his unharmed state hangs in the balance. And he didn’t mean to be obnoxious or maybe he did unconsciously want to tug at the whiskers of the lioness.

“Inches”

And the returned woman almost answers with a ‘what’. However, she’s quick to find a leeway there.

“Americans...” still joking – that’s good. “You do know that the metric system is used by the majority of the inhabitants of Earth?”

Of course he does but what’s the entertainment if you can’t poke fun at things? Especially when in all truth he’s quite good at using the said system. The half-devil puts his clasped hands behind his head to take a position even more comfortable, as if propped legs on the writing table are not enough.

“Meh, not my problem, I’m American”

She sits down on the (thankfully) empty-ish desk. There’s something so chillingly perfect and right that her gorgeous ass is rested upon _his_ desk. Trish fancies that place and the half-blood does not oppose either (quite contrary).

“Hardly. Which part of ‘half-devil’ with an impressive Hell bloodline qualifies for that, _Yankee_?” oh and that confidant, lip-gloss covered smirk shows that she knows that it’s the ace of spades in this card game. But well, ain’t that mean – and good, it’s obvious who’s back.

“Oh, I’m sorry and what do you identify yourself as? Eh, European?” he ridicules lightly and she laughs.

“Not in the slightest. I am from Hell and that’s no suburbia for you, son of Sparda”

And Dante’s reminded how much he truly hates being called by that fucking _title_. When it’s from the demoness – it’s a thousand times worse. It has ties with times he doesn’t wish to reminiscence, memories he’s got a love-hate relationship goin’ on with. From the time of that motherfucking start, she called him like that in the beginning and it was always meant to hurt. Worse part – it did and even does. And like that he feels that this convo can quickly turn into a shitstorm, not really an argument or something but simply the sort of chitchat that’ll leave you feeling shitty. But how does that saying go? Oh yeah, the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry. Real fitting, he wanted to play on her good-side and treaded into that dark-side lurking in the closet. Hopefully, he’s simply exaggerating.    

Trying to salvage the presumably worsening conversation he inquires something that should draw her gaze away from that purgatorial pathway.

“So what did you do in Europe?”

“I’ll get back to that but first I’ll get rid of my stuff” she hops off the table and goes to gather her belongings.

He doesn’t say anything to that. There are thousands of reasons why she could possibly choose to do so and it isn’t worth the mental strain to pick which is more believable. There is no need for her to get her packs out of the way because heck, the place is hoarded with plenty of items that are the furthest thing of being put tidily. Perhaps there’s something she needs to unpack or maybe he’s overthinking it and she simply does shit without any solid reason, for it just hits her fancy. So the hunter leaves it at that.

Before she heads upstairs there is a string of her name repeated by the seated male.

“Hey Trish, Trish, Trish, Trish... Trish!”

The demonette knows this tactic well, it is obvious that he is about to ask something of her. She turns to meet his expectant pale blue eyes.

“Grab me a beer from the fridge while you’re at it” the kitchen isn’t quite on the way but still he requests it of her, even though it is more likely that she’ll decline.

The huntress shakes her head lightly, he doesn’t change his stripes, now does he?

“Get it yourself” and she walks away with that.

Despite the reply it can actually go either way, solely depends of what she feels like. The half-breed knows thus for sure.

When she returns and hands him the requested bottle he’s visibly giddy about it.

“Thanks” he mumbles, to that she replies with rolling her eyes.

It’s rare of him to ever spare a couple words of appreciation, since he’s incapable of showing gratitude. And it is not like he’s never grateful but the half-devil simply doesn’t display it.

The deviless perches on the spot she had occupied before and he takes a satisfying and refreshing gulp of his beer.

“What had you been up to in wherever it was that you where?” the half-blood continues with the previously discarded topic.

“The usual: lazying about, exploring, slaying a pest here and there. Nothing out of the ordinary”

He nods at it. Afterwards a slight pause stretches between them, the conversation just doesn’t seem to stick. The demoness saves him from wracking his brain too much.

“What did you do when I was gone?”

He opts for the truth, it’s not like there’s any reason to hide the facts.

“Nothing productive. I’d thought that I would catch at least a few hunts when you were away but just my luck – everything died down as if in an enchanted forest or some fucking shit like that. Yeah, Hell doesn’t give a damn about my plans. Nope, certainly doesn’t” the hunter inquires “Was it any more active overseas?”

“No, not really”

He notices the slightest of frowns marring her features. She looks tired. The demon hunter realizes that a month or something like that is kind of short for one of Trish’s trips. Somehow this unsettles him and he presses the issue.

“I thought that you’d be gone longer, why did you return so soon?”

A dejected sigh escapes her. He wonders whether he should be worried, she’s displaying a behavior that is very uncharacteristic to her.

“It was tiresome” comes the confirmation but the demonette offers no more than that.

“Oh?”  

Reluctantly she tries to explain.

“I am not fond of large crowds”

That’s strange – the drinking man thinks, it’s not like their residence is far from any large populations, if anything they’re in the epicenter of one.

“But aren’t we living in a crowded place?”

“That’s not quite the same. I don’t often have to interact with so many mortals when I’m here”

“I never thought that you had a problem with that” he offers genuinely surprised by the revelation.

“It’s not that I have a problem with humans. But... it’s difficult to be nearly constantly surrounded by such masses. It still is in the end the best season for tourism there, the streets were packed with people” the huntress crosses her hands over-chest and continues in a wary tone “Humans... humans they’re all so different. The very auras are so... different. It’s like being shoved into a beehive, even if you can avoid the stingers, it is still so busy, busy, busy... You know that I’m not really a mind reader but still, the level of my awareness is high, sometimes the sheer quantity of mortals makes it overbearing. It is not like Hell is vastly different in that sense. But most demons are very much on the same wavelength, from their objectives, motives to desires – they’re all the same. I had held a high rank in the hierarchy of the Underworld, so I could always remove any hindrances or avoid greeting them altogether. The high devils are not as simpleminded as the lowest vermin but they still have the same basis. Well, humans do too but they lack the single-mindedness of demons, they’re just scattered all over in their mentality. Dealing with such uniqueness is intriguing, but comes to wear me down after some time. I guess I was more aware of the mortal count about me this time”

Dante tries not to be bothered with her words. He shouldn’t really be, but he is. He successfully steers the conversation away from these heavy topics.

* * *

 

Several hours of random conversing later, which had managed to be light and funny much like their norm, the half-breed asks her about food. Hunger had been gnawing from the inside of his stomach for most of the day.

He picks up the phone and turns to the deviless.

“Want some pizza?”

She shakes her head and offers a lopsided grin.

“Not for another decade” he knows that she’s joking. “Something Chinese would be wonderful”

The half-blood nods.

“Yeah, I think I’ll get some noodles or something too” after the said words a sheepish looking smile overrules his expression “You should call then”

The demoness quirks an eyebrow in question. He squirms in his seat under the scrutiny of her gaze.

“The pizzerias about – know me, so they know that sooner or later I’ll pay back, with percent if needed. But that’s sort of just for them, can’t have my feeders too upset, ‘less they wouldn’t feed me anymore. The other places are not too keen on goin’ ‘ere though. I sorta owe some of them”

There’s more judgment in those unnervingly gorgeous blue eyes.

“Okay, so maybe I owe lots to all of the nearest restaurants, the two Chinese ones included. But if it’s a girl talkin’, they can’t refuse” disguising his melting bravado is not easy, not at all.

She rolls her orbs.

“Fine”

Trish curls like a cat towards the black phone, gracefully ignoring his propped feet. That view is indescribable and the halfling makes a conscious attempt not to leer too much. Their relationship(?) is not such that prohibits such blatant admiration with darker themes beneath. But still, he tries to refrain himself from being too obvious about his less than innocent stare. It’s not because this intimate bond(?) had been rocky in the beginning and still is from time to time. No, it’s more because the half-devil’s careful to not upset the balance of this, whatever it is that is between them. He knows from experience that it is not rare for the smallest of things being capable of causing the greatest damage. But he’s probably just too damaged in the head and is having delusions on something that is not worth fretting about. In jests he often says untrue and much more dangerous things, which are sometimes replied to in a violent manner, but she nearly always sees that he is messing around. The demon hunter sighs inwardly, he doesn’t really want things to be any different but he understands that having neat, little labels to describe this connection between them would be easier to deal with. But perhaps it’s more fun to boogie with the bizarre. Now that the missing troupe member is back, the duo can hit the stage again.

The returned female starts dialing the number of the takeaway that she’s chosen, knowing the digits by memory. It’s nothing peculiar – hellish memory ‘n’ all. Although if it does not concern pizza (Italian restaurants are not included if they don’t serve quality pizzas, and fuck them and their macaroni, even if those are perfect), then he suffers from amnesia when it concerns the numbers of those places, where sustenance can be ordered and brought to the shop.

The demon slayer catches and manages to force himself out of his stupor. His partner would probably not be too pleased if he were to uncover this piece of information post factum of the order.

“Babe, it’s on you, right?”

She pauses in turning the little rotary dial with the prettily written numerals.

“Why?” the woman asks but knows well enough what the answer will be.

“Weeeeell, ya see, I was kinda out of business”

“We weren’t exactly broke when I left” the remark is harsh.

Yes, well, that’s right. He reckons that there’s no escape from this.

“I had to eat and there was this thing with collateral damage...”

“So if you have no sport, you vent on innocent buildings.”

“That’s not quite--”

She cuts him off.

“Shut up. I’ll pay and then I’ll make sure to triple whatever you had lost.”

Demons or no demons, Dante knows that she will pull it off. There’s no reason to doubt her words.

He tries to make play, make light of the situation, maybe even calm himself – he feels that he’s failed whatever that he had resolutions not to fail while she was away.

“Ouch. _Soooo mean!_ ”

The deviless replies with a glare and dials the number anew.

The hunter knows that now that she’s back, things will get a lot more interesting. Real boredom won’t even linger on the horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> Repetition Complex began in 2013. Due to the lack of readers' interest and my own time being occupied by other projects - it has not been updated in quite a while.
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> Feedback is very appreciated and responded to!


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